


Betwixt and Between

by koakuma_tsuri



Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Compilation, Drabbles, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, Oral Sex, Pwps, Smut, cockslut Morgs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-03 11:23:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1742984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koakuma_tsuri/pseuds/koakuma_tsuri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection Morgler drabbles</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The door doesn’t open so much as it slams back against the wall.  Jos only jerks his head to the side to see who it is.  He’s been somewhat expecting an invasion of this nature. And the newcomer is not a surprise.  Eoin’s eyes are practically on fire, so intense and hungry under his brow bone.  His jaw is clenched tight and all Jos has to do is smirk to pull the trigger.

The Irishman descends upon him like a squall. How such small legs can cover such ground in a blink of an eye is a quandary Jos can’t ponder if he even wants to.  Eoin yanks the shirt he’s just removed out of his hand before reaching up to grip his face and drags him down for a kiss.

All of Eoin’s patience has twisted to desperation over the innings.  There’s very few things that Jos sees as more of a reward for his performance. 

The blonde grins, hands finding themselves in tousled, still-damp red hair. Half of him wants to slow the fervour because as much as he wants it, and is still high on adrenaline and success, he’s still giddy on that success and wants to do exactly what he’s always been told and  _savour_ it.  He’s been there countless times when Morgan’s got his centuries and finally it’s his turn.

When he feels Eoin yanking at the strings of his trousers, Jos chuckles, drawing out of the kiss. His mind is made up “Hey, what’s the rush?”

"You just got a century," Eoin says flatly. His eyes are barely open and the intent in them is still blatant.  "You are man—"

"Yes," Jos’ grin is genuine and his crystal-eyed youth keeps it from smugness.  “And I will continue to be when we get back to yours.”

“Bastard,” Eoin snarls. Not vicious or petulant, but frustrated. Just a glimmer of teeth is visible behind his reddened lips and Jos withholds a shudder, just thinking of what Eoin will be like later, being made to wait even longer… all the marks he’ll wake to find on his body when the redhead is finished with him.

Jos narrows his gaze as he slides his hands down Eoin’s back, pushing him closer and leaning down to his ear. “I have a magnum of champagne,”

Humming, Eoin seems more interested in his neck than what he’s saying. Those strong hands roam his abdomen and up to his chest, gripping him as he steps to be closer still. The lust still simmers – Jos can  _feel_  the tension in that smaller body – but he thinks Eoin understands what he’s thinking. Moreover, common sense says this isn’t exactly the place for the intense and wild sex that he’s anticipating.

“I’d like to drink it with you. Drink it  _off_  you, Eoin,” Jos continues. He has to close his eyes and  _focus_ ; keeping what he’s thinking in mind: the evening, not the moment… “Any problems?”

The noise Eoin makes is quiet and beautiful. Something between a hitched breath and the needy, insistent mewl of a kitten. Whilst Eoin isn’t the hardest of people to excite, it’s exhilarating beating someone of such skill and power at his own game. As if getting the century wasn’t already enough; as if setting a new record wasn’t already enough, Jos now feels like he’s conquered the world. 


	2. Chapter 2

The knock on the door is sharp and demanding. Eoin smirks, shaking his head just slightly as he slides from the bed. He puts his phone on silent and leaves it on the bedside table. Jos is late. Eoin knows: he’s been clock-watching, laying on the bed in his underwear and listening to the sounds of the hotel around him – the TV in the room next door, the family that seems to be in the room below. For a while, he sat up whenever footsteps stomped past his door but none stopped.

There was never any doubt that Jos wouldn’t come. As a Captain, Eoin knows his teammates; the tempers and irritations. As Jos’ lover, Eoin knows his darker side: the simmering rage that never quite settles until he’s either completely distracted from it or it burns out. Jos is the archetypal  _quiet one_  to look out for. It’s fascinating.

 

The blonde all but looms in the doorway, his face absolutely hawkish with tight lips and ice-blue eyes. Shoulders tense, he breathes deeply. His nipples are prominent underneath his shirt and if Eoin licks his lips, it’s not intentional. Jos is just as expected and the redhead contains a shiver to the depths of his spine, excited and needy.

He raises an eyebrow and lips curling upwards as if daring. It’s consent and that’s when Jos strikes. Nimble, precise and quick, he grabs Eoin by the neck. Using his greater weight, he shoves him back and that hold is just about the only thing that keeps him upright.

Perhaps Jos’ thumbs press too forcefully in the motion against his throat or the noise Eoin produces is simply choked with arousal. Jos has been in foul moods before, but never quite like this. He’s never been so  _humiliated_  before and in desperate need to vent. Eoin’s never been so eager to provide that outlet. He tingles so much he feels numb.

The room passes by in a blaze of neutral colours, not that Eoin pays much attention. Jos’ hands plunder, blunt nails scratch and he pushes his underwear down until the redhead himself finishes the job, kicking them aside. The kiss is like being devoured. Eoin is afforded next to no control. He’s granted a measure freedom to strip Jos out of his kit. With each discarded garment, the wicketkeeper grunts, nipping his bottom lip between sharp teeth. That reward works fantastically. The moment they’re naked, they’re already hard and the space between them vanishes.

They never quite make it to the bed. Maybe it’s the side of the wardrobe, or the bathroom door or a wall – he doesn’t know and  _really_ doesn’t care – that Eoin collides with. It’s solid. It’s stable. It’s  _perfect_. It’s cold against his back where as Jos feels like the fire that possesses him.

The young batsman shoves him back, crushing his greater height and weight against him. Eoin groans as a flash of pain works its way down every nerve and into his cock, breaking the furious kiss. He’s grinning, biting his lip. Jos says nothing. Eoin can hear the hiss of his breath in his ear like a hurricane against a window pane. He keeps his head back against the wall, neck exposed and back arched enough that when Jos lifts him up, the blonde’s cock presses perfectly angled against his hole.

There’s just enough of  _Jos_  left in there that he reaches down to check that Eoin’s prepared himself accordingly. He smirks when he feels traces of lubricant and Eoin just flashes him a look between smugness and indignity. That hand then trails down his thigh and hooks under his knee to keep his legs spread and his smaller form almost completely elevated on nothing but Jos’ strength. He couldn’t manage it without the wall, but then neither would Eoin be able to grind himself down onto him, like some wanton animal.

Jos lowers his head, fastening his lips just under Eoin’s adam’s apple as he thrusts upwards. Not the usual slow slide or even the teasing little penetrations that annoy the redhead to the point that he flips their positions and take what he wants, but all Jos’ length pushing deep inside at once. The confidence of it unwinds Eoin. He’s elated by the venom he finds himself privy to: both trusted to see it and trusted to take it.

He cups one hand around the back of Jos’ head, keeping that mouth and its teeth close. The other grips onto a shoulder blade and  _loves_  how the muscles feel against his palm as Jos moves. Firm, consistent and brutal, each thrust drives a gasping moan from Eoin’s throat. He feels the blonde’s lips move against his skin, to words that are too quiet to discern.

Eoin’s usually vocal in sex, especially with Jos. But now he keeps his tongue lax, only managing curses and maybe the odd moan of his name. Anything more could distract from this rage and that is exactly what he doesn’t want. Especially now. With his cock rubbing against the smooth and hard expanse on Jos’ abdomen, his pleasure builds quickly. If Eoin were the sentimental type, or even some form of poet, he might remark on how it feels like all that raging heat from Jos is seeping into him, but the simple fact is he knows he going to come soon and it’s going to be  _fantastic_. He grins with anticipation.

And then growls with abject frustration when Jos suddenly pulls out like he’s just about to finish. He opens his eyes into a glower, finding instead that Jos is smirking and whilst he’s breathing rapidly, he’s nowhere near done. Eoin frowns, searching that face, those tight lips, for an explanation when he feels his legs being lowered back to the floor.

Understanding immediately, he lets go of his hold on the blonde and turns around. Forearms flat on the cream wall before him, Eoin hangs his head against them. Jos wastes no time is pressing all of himself against him again, sparing just enough room to hold his cock still enough to position before he starts again. Both hands grasp his hips, pulling the redhead backwards and finding his prostate easily.

With this angle, and without the strain of keeping him up, Jos can afford even more force. His lips find the back of Eoin’s ear and finally, he can hear each of those gorgeous little noises that make him bite his lip to keep from saying something about how  _fucking good_  this is and how he wishes he knew ways to get him this angry more often. But he’s glad he doesn’t, because this is  _special_. He knew it the moment Jos came back to the dressing room; flung his bat across the room and stormed off somewhere for those final overs he should’ve been out there for.

Between the panting and the moans, there are curses and insults that Eoin absently wonders are directed at the opposition or at himself. There’s definitely frustration underlying but they all become less and less frequent the fast the pace becomes. The closer Jos is to coming, the more distracted he becomes from that rage. It’s burning out. Eoin is infinitely pleased he’s done his job and is able to surrender to the orgasm that fast approaches without feeling a shred of guilt.

His fingers curl tightly but the pain of his nails in his palms doesn’t register through the pressure of heat that’s coiled deep within him. Jos’ feels his muscles tightening around him and loosens his grip, allowing Eoin to rock back against him the way his body needs to, frantically taking and  _taking_  until it all snaps inside him.

It’s not so much a moan he lets out than a grunt of the utmost satisfactory release. The pleasure feels like a wild torrent inside him, and were it not for Jos’ hold, or the force with which he presses his forehead into his fists, he probably would have collapsed into a purring, twitching mess on the floor.

Jos thrusts twice more, swearing into the back of Eoin’s neck, no doubt wanting nothing more than to come inside the slick body that constricts him. High on his ecstasy, the redhead nearly says he can. But Jos pulls out again – almost a relief from the oversensitivity Eoin suffers and the  _size_  of that cock only emphasised by his tightness – and jerks himself into completion.

Eoin hums contentedly when he feels the wet warmth of it on his skin. He glances down to the mess he’s made of the wall and smirks. To come out of this completely clean would leave him feeling like he had done something terribly wrong. He’ll take care of it all in a minute, but for now he’s stuck with the young batsman slumped against his back; arms lazily wrapped around his waist to keep him there.

Usually there would be some kind of kiss, if not some form of tenderly scathing remark. The silence is intriguing and thrilling. If this incarnation of Jos is one rarely seen, Eoin sees no wrong in exploiting him.

“Still pissed?” he asks, almost chirping happily and making no attempt to cover it. The way Jos just grunts, not even smirking or offering some cheeky back-handed insult of a compliment tells Eoin exactly what he wants to hear. And he is so pleased, knowing the blonde’s youth and metabolism. “Excellent,” he grins all sharp teeth and narrow eyes as he pulls them both into the bathroom.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some pwp born from a chatfic when the guys were playing in the Windies.

“Yeah, yeah, G’night,” Jos says jovially as he shoves Alex out of the door, not even listening to a word the man has to say.

“I just want to _watch_ ,” Hales calls through the door. As Jos turns he remembers that Alex must have some way of opening the door to be found in here in the first place and twists to flick the lock so whatever that way may be, Alex is not getting in.

Jos can’t get back to the bedroom fast enough. He rounds the corner, already hearing Eoin’s laboured breaths. It excites him but it’s not a surprise. The instruction was for Eoin to get started as he kicked out their friend. Still, the sight of Eoin laying completely naked on the bed with his legs spread is not something he feels he will ever be able to completely prepare for.

Eoin’s pale fingers work slickly in and out of his hole. He’s already taking two. Was Jos really that long in disposing of Alex, or is Eoin far more eager than anticipated? Yes, that murmur against Jos’ chin on the beach was fuelled with unadulterated desire, but fresh from release he had suspected at least a slight exaggeration.

But the Irishman seems intent to inspire that same need within him. And just like everything Eoin wants, he knows exactly how to get it. He’s a wonder performer, somehow managing to make Jos completely miss his ploy; only focus on those fingers, and how his hips press hungrily downwards, and how he makes these gasping purrs that never cease to make Jos lick his lips.

Maybe one day Jos will be embarrassed with how easily he is controlled. He’ll be mortified by how he shuffles like some lust-addled zombie towards the bed and climbs up onto it with his shorts still on. He’ll actually notice how Eoin smirks, smug with his own victory. Today is not that day. Today Jos focuses on how the redhead’s face twists with pleasure at every slide of his fingers.

He slides his hands up the length of Eoin’s legs. Jos is content just to watch; just to _feel_ his way along that pale flesh until he reaches the crease of his hips. Eoin’s just a little ticklish there so he shudders when Jos purposely ghosts his fingers across it. Those hips jerk upwards to start to rock in a more regular rhythm, as if he knows what Jos is planning. He probably does. He’s taught Jos everything he knows.

As if it wasn’t obvious enough already, Eoin’s cock betrays his keenness. Full and wet around the head. The redhead hums the second he brushes his fingers against that shining slit. Jos wraps his fingers around the shaft and momentarily squeezes. Not so long ago at all had he done the same, knees digging into the wet sand as he thrust against him.  The redhead’s hands were on his shoulder blades, keeping him close. One still is. And how Eoin looked at him then as he does now: white teeth in a swollen bottom lip, blue eyes full of fire and ecstasy.

Unlike then, Eoin doesn’t moan his name. He doesn’t reach out to touch him; doesn’t nibble on his ear as the blonde makes a new red mark just by the hollow of his clavicle. It’s like he prefers the penetration of his fingers… and maybe he does. Eoin’s always been one for internal stimulus.

Jos is not off-put. He continues to stroke slowly and firmly. The game is not to bring Eoin to orgasm, but the redhead seems to think otherwise.  He’s never truly tight enough to warrant more than a few minutes of stretching and Jos can see in the light cast from above them that the slightest of pink flushes blossoms across his cheeks.

“Do you want to come?” the blonde questions, both genuinely curious and just verging on annoyed. Not half an hour ago, Eoin had said just how _badly_ he _needed his cock_ , yet here he is doing as he always does: driving Jos insane.

Whilst Jos can _stop_ Eoin from finishing, with his fingers so close to where they would need to press, he knows that it’s all just silly theory. What Eoin wants, Eoin gets. It’s a fact of life. He’s got the strength and ginger stubbornness to simply throw Jos off and finish himself. When he’s done laughing at the younger’s audacity, that is.

Eoin simply hums like he’s daring Jos to try it. The blonde is unwilling to give him that pleasure. Mostly because inevitably he’d be the one losing out. Eoin requested sex and they’re going to have it.

When Jos suddenly pulls away, the Irishman frowns but doesn’t quietly whine like he’s been known to in the past. Jos just sits back on his heels, comfortable between Eoin’s spread legs. Without any semblance of subtlety or shame, his gaze wanders down from Eoin’s face to those scissoring fingers. He rubs his palm against his erection through the vibrant orange of his shorts.

If the man acts like he’s incapable of speech then he’s a liar. Jos knows for a fact he’s not, but not that it really matters. Those blue eyes do the talking… the _indignity_ in them. Not only that Jos had _abandoned_ him in favour of himself, but maybe that whatever twisted game he had concocted has now been thwarted. Unfortunately, he remains stubborn as ever and does not give in. In fact, Jos notices the slightest of movements and realises that Eoin’s curling his fingers, massaging his own prostate. The sight of it does some delightfully sordid to his mind and without thinking, he pulls down his shorts just enough to free his cock. He wraps his right hand around it and the left loosely around Eoin’s ankle.

Eoin rolls his head back in the pillow; his lips parted to let out those recurrent pants. His hips raise to a teasingly perfect angle for Jos to fit to, to slide in, but that hand remains.

“I’ll get Alex back here then,” the blonde grins narrowly, showing just enough glimmer of teeth that he sees Eoin swallow a little of his dignity. There’s still no clear line where they begin and end… just a grey area that isn’t _casual_ yet still not _relationship_. Jos doesn’t know if Eoin would be angered or offended, excited or indifferent to the thought of Jos taking another partner. “So I’ll have something to fuck into.”

There’s a flash he sees in Eoin’s azure eyes that isn’t quite jealousy, but it’s close enough that he thinks it’s done the trick.  He makes more of a show of fisting his cock, and when he tenses his abdominal muscles just how Eoin likes it, he hears that choked little mewl he wanted. He’s not satisfied with it though. With the redhead’s stubbornness, Jos wants to hear him _ask_. Or demand like he did on the beach. He’s not that fussy.

“Something good and tight,” Letting his head fall back on his shoulders, Jos rocks his hips into his fist. “and fucks back twice as hard.”

It’s easy to fall into a rhythm that matches the penetration of Eoin’s fingers and it absently reminds him of the time they mucked around on Skype during the Big Bash. Too easy to imagine that tight body around him. He hopes that Eoin gives in soon because that moment is coming where he won’t be able to stop himself. Ridiculous, it hasn’t been that long at all since his last release.

“Jos,” he hears Eoin pant and for a second forgets the present. He opens the eyes he doesn’t recall shutting, finding that the redhead has finally finished with his fingers. That hand instead is wrapped around his cock. Glossy fingers fidget impatiently. Eoin stares straight at him; the lust in his eyes is palpable. He’s almost there…

Rubbing his thumb against the head of his length, Jos moans the Irishman’s name back to him. He sees Eoin roll his eyes in a mixture of irritation and surrender and fights the urge to smirk. He loses.

Eoin shakes his head and chuckles sardonically. “Just get in me already.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Again, he moves like there’s not a thought in his head.  Eagerness is forgivable. It’s expected after all. Nothing would annoy Eoin more than nonchalance when he’s not the one displaying it. Eoin laughs at his grin, leaning up to chastely kiss it as Jos positions himself against that smaller body. Strong legs curl around his hips and it’s strange to not feel them against his skin, but he’s here now and he’ll be damned if he pulls back to remove his shorts completely. Eoin is not trustworthy enough to not start the whole charade again.

Once the tip of his cock is pressing against Eoin’s slick hole, he plants his hands underneath the redhead’s armpits; enough to suspend himself and give enough room for Eoin to continue fisting his length. He can feel Eoin’s knuckles brushing against his smooth abdomen slowly. It’s only to tease. The man is keen, Jos can see that clearly, but for him and what he will give.

The blonde can wait no longer. He leans down to press his mouth against Eoin’s. He slips his tongue in as he pushes his hips down. Usually he delights in hearing the hums and groans that slip out but today he’d rather taste them. Maybe he got used to silence when they were forced into it on the beach. He can’t contain the near-growl that rumbles in his throat as that warmth envelopes him so willingly and welcoming.

Eoin vibrates against him, fully relaxed so he can slide so deeply inside. Jos smirks when he feels the redhead’s spare hand cup tightly around his occipital, almost crushing him down into the kiss. He thinks it’s because Eoin’s feeling especially vocal. It would make sense with how he’d been teasing himself and how _badly_ he had been wanting. Normally such a thing would not be a concern. Eoin’s shameless about his pleasure but Jos supposes they’ve never really been in such a small hotel before. Maybe he even thinks Alex is hanging around outside and doesn’t want to give him any ammunition… Jos really doesn’t care for either excuse.

When he rocks his hips down a little harder, Eoin gasps sharply. It hisses in a tiny gap between their lips; a gap that widens as Jos sneers. He keeps the angle, knowing exactly how it rubs against the Irishman’s prostate. He can feel it: that change of texture against the head of his cock… it’s always been a target for the both of them. There’s just the added reward for him of seeing Eoin’s face contort in ecstasy. How his frown deepens and his eyes become so small and dark they’re like glimmers of a night sky through his fair lashes; that mouth and the sounds from it.

Jos pulls out of the kiss, letting his tongue be the last thing to lose contact and nudges Eoin’s hand down his neck. The man seems content to nestle it in the crease of muscle formed by his shoulders as he mantels over him. It becomes clear that Eoin is conflicted over what exactly he wants. He clutches Jos tightly, arching his back for more contact, but it means it’s nigh-on impossible for him to continue fisting his cock. There’s no need for him to do so anyway; Jos just thinks he’s being greedy. He won’t remark on it though, knowing he’d be exactly the same. He had very much enjoyed the double stimulus of Eoin’s lips around his shaft and two fingers curling against the nerves inside him.

Regardless of that intense pleasure, Eoin eventually gives up. Instead that hand slots snugly into Jos’ armpit. He tugs him down and latches onto the skin that covers the joint of the wicketkeeper’s shoulder. Eoin’s returning the gift of a lovebite. Jos groans and hangs his head, both pleased and frustrated. The shoulder feels in no way as erotic as it does on his neck… they had done that once and some of the teammates had been less than impressed. Even Eoin had scratched the back of his head and, unable to meet the blonde’s gaze, said it was a reckless mistake.

It doesn’t stop him from nibbling on the Irishman’s ear though. Tufts of ginger hair should be enough colour for whatever redness he leaves in his wake. But he never quite bites down or sucks, nothing like what Eoin’s doing. And the man continues to moan, gasping Jos’ name over and over like it’s an encouragement.

The blonde needs so such thing. His hips move at their own pace. Maybe this would have last longer had they not brought themselves so close to release in their teasing. Jos doesn’t regret a thing and seeing how he pushes himself firmly towards him just to get more cock inside him, neither does Eoin. The man falls back to the pillows. Just the whites of his eyes are visible under the shadow cast from his browbone, almost matching his teeth as he bares them, putting as much effort into his movement as he does his batting. Jos loves how he frowns, the crease that forms in Eoin’s forehead is something he likes to kiss. He lowers himself down onto his forearms in order to do so. And it brings him even closer to Eoin yet.

The pace doubles without warning. Jos tries to keep them deep and regular but Eoin’s too close to really care. All he wants is friction and Jos’ cock against his prostate and ravenously exploits every angle he can work his hips into whilst still clinging tightly to the wicketkeeper’s hips with his thighs. Jos soon finds himself powerless to even _try_ and hold the Irishman still. Muscles throb around him, feeling like they grow hotter and slicker with the precum that oozes from him.

Eoin is in no way quiet when he comes, like the moan he had bitten into the back of his hand on the beach is reborn in cry that makes Jos duck his head to the man’s shoulder and growl such _need_.  It’s nonsensical but so gratifying, maybe even more so than the urgently _too sensitive_ pants of “ _Jos, Jos, fuck—Jos—Ugh—fuck,_ ” that follow hot and moist in his ear.

He has to pull out a few seconds later when the embrace of Eoin’s body threatens to steal any semblance of his self control. He bites into the redhead’s shoulder, frantically reaching down to jerk himself to finish. He’s barely upright, relying purely on how Eoin supports his shoulders as he thrusts down into his fist.

Jos is a lot more reserved into his climax. He all but sighs out Eoin’s name as he spills himself over Eoin’s already white abdomen. The orgasm isn’t the strongest he’s ever had but it’s still enough to make his extremities tingle. He grins, lazy and replete as he raises his head up from the new bruise on the redhead’s skin.

Rolling his eyes, Eoin just pushes him off. He takes one look at the mess they’ve made of his stomach before he flops back down to the mattress, arms flung either side: one over Jos’ chest. Jos just glances at it, then back to the redhead who slowly twists his head towards him.

“You’re dressed,” Eoin mumbles and Jos frowns for a second before he remembers the shorts he never got round to removing. Once they’re on his mind without sex to distract him, the discomfort of them finally registers. “Fetch me a wash cloth.”

Jos slips his flaccid length back into his shorts. His eyes are not on Eoin’s face when he replies, “We could shower?”

One fair eyebrow raises and Eoin smiles so sweetly insincere it reminds Jos of a crocodile. “Or you could get me a wash cloth?”

“Or we could shower together,” Jos rolls onto his side and pulls Eoin closer by his waist. His fingers dance towards the curve of the Irishman’s buttocks; eyes curving into a smile as Eoin just stares at him with unfeeling eyes like a doll. “I could—” Jos sighs and slides backwards off of the bed, seeing that he’s getting nowhere and accepting that maybe his lover is genuinely too tired for more. His legs wobble just slightly and he turns quickly, not trusting himself to gaze upon Eoin’s dishevelled form before pointlessly attempting to seduce him once more. He gets three paces away from the bed when he hears the rustle of Eoin sitting up.

“You could _what_?” the redhead asks, both curiosity and a smirk plain in that smooth accent.

Glancing over his shoulder, Jos flashes a wickedly curved grin. “Why don’t you come find out?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some ridiculous fluff that no one asked for.

The autumn sun is warm in the late morning; high enough to shine through the long window that runs parallel to the ceiling. It’s just about the only thing that wakes Eoin. The world outside is so very different to London. Almost silent in contrast. Blackbirds and robins replace loud neighbours above and below him and the odd car that drives down the road are much easier on the ears than teenagers kicking footballs against bins.

He rolls over, mewling lazily as he stretches his limbs out to the very extremities. There comes no comment from the other side of the bed and no arms twine around his waist to draw him across the pale blue sheets. Jos is by no means a renowned morning person, but he is rarely still asleep when Eoin finally rouses. Grinning, the Irishman turns his head. He expects to see the man a ruffled mess; asleep on his front with the muscles of his back twisting beautifully with each slow, deep breath. But Jos isn’t there. Eoin frowns, reaching out and finding that half of the bed cold.

Wait, wasn’t there someone at the front door a while ago? Yes. The doorbell had rung twice as if knowing that the dogs were lying prostrate in the kitchen wondering if they had just imaged the sound the first time. So they started barking, running the length of the house and standing at the bottom of the stairs making an unholy racket Eoin just isn’t accustomed to anymore. He remembers kicking Jos from bed to silence them. He remembers turning back over with the duvet over his head. Then he must have fallen asleep again.

He briefly wonders where the blonde is, then heavily contemplates going back to sleep. They’ve nothing planned, even if there _is_ anything to do in Somerset. Jos would only come upstairs to find him eventually so Eoin can pull him back into bed and made good of the fact they’ve got the house to themselves for three days.

But then Jos had told him in obscene detail about the sausages his mother buys in the village that make breakfast sandwiches to die for. He had said that Eoin hasn’t tasted Somerset until he tries them. Eoin insisted he already has tasted Somerset, and he’s particularly fond of it. A blush had spread those tanned cheeks and Jos had looked at him like he didn’t _love_ his incorrigible nature.

Eoin isn’t so interested in sleeping now. He twists on the firm mattress, letting his legs hang over the side of the bed until he summons up the will to plant his feet on the floor. The carpet in Jos’ bedroom is thick and plush and clean. It had probably (needlessly) been hovered upon news that the blessed son was returning. 

There’s a pair of briefs left on the floor; Eoin doesn’t know whose and doesn’t really care. He pulls them on and stretches again as he stands. After a quick detour into the bathroom, he ambles down the stairs. The place smells of coffee: it’s a mystery why he hadn’t smelt it before. It leads him through the house and past the drawing room door which is ajar. Inside the TV is on, spewing squeaky voices and the bangs and crashes of cartoon violence. Eoin rolls his eyes as he continues on to find the coffee machine. He knows Jos is no better than the rest of them when it comes to being a big kid, but he draws the line at blowing someone whilst they watch the Disney Channel.

He takes his coffee black and loads it with enough sugar to keep him awake for at least another hour before shuffling his way back towards the drawing room. The door opens easily at a nudge from his foot and Jos immediately jerks his head back, hearing the brush of it against the carpet. He grins widely, no doubt about to explain why there’s a small head of brown hair sat besides him.

Eoin doesn’t know whether to duck back out of the room or not, hardly one to wander about in skimpy underwear around children. The child doesn’t move so neither does he.

“This is Adam. Lives across the road. His parents had to pop up to Bristol, so I said we could take care of him today.”

“All day?” Eoin mumbles into his mug, one eyebrow raised at the child who is so utterly fixated on the bright moving colours and shapes on the TV. His expression must look more like a glare than he actually intends because Jos momentarily turns to ruffle the little boy’s hair and pushes himself up.

“What?” he says as he leads them both into the white-wood hallway. Somehow he must have managed to sneak back into the bedroom and dress without waking Eoin up, which is somewhat annoying. Though he knows he probably would have resented being woken to be told there’s a child in the house as much as he does finding out now. “We didn’t have any plans.”

“Yes, we did,”

Tilting his head like a big yellow dog he sometimes resembles, Jos scowls, “We did?”

Eoin leans back against the wall. Never once does he lower the mug from his face, like the steaming aroma is the very oxygen he needs to survive. “What happened to your ‘ _I wanna do that thing where we have sex in every room in the house’_?”

Blue eyes widen drastically and he glances sharply at the open door not a metre away and then glares at the redhead. But Eoin knows children well enough that they share little interest in what adults murmur when there’s… whatever that was on the TV. Besides, if a kid that small understands what he’s saying then Eoin worries just what sort of people the Buttlers are friends with. He knows there’s plenty of birds and bees in the West Country but—

“I was _drunk_ when I said that!”

“Drunk people are honest people,” Eoin shrugs and nonchalantly takes a mouthful of his drink.

When Jos’ jaw flaps, totally unable to come up with another counter-argument, Eoin swallows the coffee like it’s another victory. He’ll need all the small pleasures he can get as it seems like he’s getting nothing else today.

“I’ll go get dressed then.”

Eoin is halfway up the stairs when he hears the child finally talk, asking Jos in that demanding manner some children have who he was.

“That’s my friend Eoin,”

“Is he your _best_ friend?”

Not even knowing exactly why, the Irishman pauses and leans over the banister to pick up the softly spoken answer. It sounds like Jos is smiling as he says, “Yes, I suppose he is.”

If being Jos’ _best friend_ is supposed to earn him special treatment, it’s earns him a very special kind of hostility. From the moment he walks back into the drawing room, he feels two little brown eyes locked on him. Eoin knows jealousy enough to sense it ordinarily but children are so open and free with emotions he can _taste_ it. He settles beside Jos on the leather sofa, with his arm slyly running along the back of it so he can rub his fingers into the blonde’s hair.

It doesn’t take long for him to start imagining what it would have been like to lounge around in bed for a little while longer. Then onwards to anything more productive. He’s missed breakfast, he’ll admit, but he doesn’t know his way around the Buttler’s kitchen enough to even attempt to make some lunch.

“I swear they didn’t play this much TV for kids when I was little,” he groans into Jos’ ear. Usually at a time like this – squashed on a sofa with something he holds little or no interest in on the TV – he’d start to nibble that ear and down; pulling himself closer and making little noises until Jos’ attention is successfully diverted. But usually there’s not a small child just the other side.

“Maybe not when _you_ were a kid,” the blonde glances over his shoulder and he’s close enough to just steal a kiss with the very tip of Eoin’s nose.

The mistake he makes is laughing. Laughing like he really is Jos’ ‘best friend’ because within the next few seconds, Adam’s shuffling and clambering around as if to get comfortable. Jos affectionately moves to suit the boy and lets him cast his slender little legs over his lap. Eoin doesn’t mind having dinosaur-covered socks on his lap, but he is adverse to how Adam digs his heels into his thighs. Eoin dares not say anything. He knows children. Knows their innocent smiles and tricks and knows they’ll strike back twice as acidic.

After a while, not wanting to get too bruised, Eoin silently gets up and moves to the armchair across the room. The sunlight reflects too brightly on the screen so he can barely see a thing and it makes the situation even more annoying. He rests his head back and sighs. “So… we’re just going to sit and watch cartoons all day?”

Adam just looks at him out of the corner of his eye, looking for all the world like some meme an old school friend once linked him to. Or maybe Damien from _The Omen_. He doesn’t dare mention _homework_ , even if kids this age get it set. If they do, and Adam does have some, Eoin gets the impression from that glower that _he’d_ end up doing it.

Jos hums in thought and rubs his stubbly cheeks on his way into a stretch. For avid sportsmen, sitting down for such durations is surprisingly tiring.  He turns to Adam, all bright blue eyes and childish grin. “Ads, you still playing for the village team?”

The boy nods, visibly beaming when Jos pays such direct attention to him. It’s adorable, Eoin will happily admit, but he’d prefer not being the object of that adoration’s antithesis.

“Beaten Jay from Lawson Close’s record yet?”

Narrow shoulders sag and Eoin can see that little body mire in misery. Jos’ eyes flick up to him with a grin that says whatever plan he has is working. The redhead leans back in the arm chair and studies the artex on the ceiling. It reminds him of his grandma’s house, and the hectic times he spent there, surrounded by his siblings and cousins, and more recently all his nieces and nephews. He loves his family dearly, but sometimes he’s happy they live in Ireland.

“Why don’t we go out a play for a bit?” Jos suggests and Adam jumps up like the last minute never happened. “Eoin’s a handy batsman; could help?”

Although he knew he was expecting it, Eoin still grimaces upon hearing that proposition. But when he sees Adam turn he puts on his best, most approachable smile.

“You play cricket too?” There’s an undeniable tone of accusation that he ignores. He’s Irish. Many people are surprised to hear he can play. They’re even more surprised when he says he’s captained England on many occasions.

“Yes.”

He knows the next question because it’s the only thing that matters to a small boy. It’s the only thing that mattered to him for years. “ _Test Cricket_?”

“Yes, 16 matches,”

“Any centuries?”

“2, Agains—”

“You’re not very good, are you?” Eoin’s gobsmacked, flapping his jaw wordlessly as Adam turns to Jos for reassurance, “Is he?”

To his credit – not that Eoin’s that impressed that he won’t mention it later – the blonde doesn’t smirk like they both know he wants to. He simply ruffles the kid’s hair and chuckles like he finds that audacity genuinely amusing no matter what the context. “Then maybe we should teach him a few shots, hmm?”

They don’t go to the local cricket ground. Jos had said it might soon be a bad idea if word got out that they were there. The club runners would jump at the chance to utilise them, if not simply besiege Jos with questions and comments and adoration he didn’t come home to receive. Their plan basically was _stay inside_ , whether or not that meant what Eoin had been planning.

Adam proudly clutches his little bat. It’s a thing that only Jos had been allowed to touch. He had skilfully placated the child, acting like it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. It was no cheap thing either, Eoin can recognise so he doesn’t take to heart the way Adam had abruptly changed direction when the redhead had even _looked_ at the bat. In the place of wicketkeeping gloves, Jos just has a pair of gardening gloves that he found in the garage when they were digging out a set of plastic stumps. Adam had sat on the little front lawn hungry munching on a hastily slopped together ham and cheese sandwich.

In a secluded area of the little village park, away from cars and any possible feathered casualties by the duckpond, Jos sets up the stumps and positions himself behind them. He looks ridiculous with those gloves that must be his mother’s because Eoin can hardly envisage his father in magenta and purple suede.

Adam takes up his stance, looking as confident and goading as Pietersen can. Maybe Eoin’s just imagining it, or maybe this kid has plans of hitting the ball back into his face. Or the furthest possible reaches of the park, or maybe into the thicket of rhododendrons around Cover.

He throws the ball up a couple times, getting a feel for it. It’s only a plastic thing to match the stumps and he’s not sure what he can do with it. Then again, bowling to a kid who can’t be more than six, he probably doesn’t have to do anything with it.

“Am I under-arming or—”

“No no,” Jos gestures him down their dirt path makeshift pitch to a 22-ish yard looking distance. “Ads is pretty handy. Just don’t bowl full pace, I don’t want you straining a muscle,” where the kid can’t see, Jos winks at him and Eoin narrows his eyes. They’ve played games like this before but again, there’s never usually a child in the vicinity.

“I bet I can hit him for six!” the little brunette proclaims as he hits his bat impatiently against the ground.

Eoin is half tempted to indulge the kid with something easy to hit, as Jos probably would which might be why Adam is so fond of him, but then Eoin’s had to work for everything he’s gotten in life and can’t see any good coming from spoiling a child now. He can hardly look up at a bowler like Morkel or Malinga and request the type of ball he wants. The best he can do is tenderly challenge him.

Gently running up, he bowls the ball in a way that exposes that his heart wasn’t behind it and his intentions are to go easy. Adam swings and misses and is less than impressed as the ball goes through straight into Jos’ gloves.

“You couldn’t hit my uncle Dan’s garage door with that,” he says, hitting the ground again with such fiery eyes it’s actually quite endearing. “And he’s got a big garage.”

“Are you sledging me, little man?” Eoin gapes, exaggerated for their amusement, as he catches the ball that Jos tosses back to him.

Adam sticks his tongue out whilst the blonde wicketkeeper quietly chuckles. He’s obviously enjoying the spectacle and maybe even thinks that the child is finally warming up to Eoin. ‘ _He’s a shy boy’_ , had been one excuse for the animosity the redhead had remarked upon, ‘ _and I think he was expecting it just being me and him today… he’ll come round, I promise you… and if he doesn’t…’_

The next ball he bowls has intent behind it. It whizzes straight past Adam’s bat again and this time clips the blue off-stump. The thing just wobbles a bit but the sound of plastic hitting plastic is clear enough for the three of them to hear it. Eoin does as Stuart does when he takes a wicket, making a quick lap of their little pitch with his arms out-stretched.

Adam snorts and Jos leans down to mutter just loud enough for the Irishman to hear. “These are the best bowling figures he’ll ever have. Let him be happy.”

Rolling his eyes, Eoin starts the game again. The balls are more amicable and Adam does manage to hit a few of them when he gets used to the pace and trajectory. He’s not bad. At all. The pair do give him pointers, which he immediately practises and asks – _asks, not demands_ – Eoin to keep bowling at him until he feels like he’s gotten it. But Adam’s of the age that he still gets bored of something no matter how much he’s enjoying it and the lack of interest starts to show in his stance and how he keeps on asking about dinner and his parents and anything else that catches his eye.

Not wanting to be the one to call the game to an end lest it revive the boy’s hostility that seems to have dwindled over their play, Eoin waits for Jos to be the one to suggest they head back home. The blonde takes care of the stumps and Eoin finds Adam’s bat thrust into his hands as the boy wants to play with ball. He just looks at Jos, utterly shell-shocked and holds the bat like it was made from fine crystal.

“Told you so,” he grins, slapping Eoin on the backside with his pink gloves.

He just chuckles, watching as Jos all but swaggers away behind Adam, who’s too busy practising his own bowling to pay attention to them. “We’re still on for pizza though, right?” Eoin asks. He trots up to fall into stride beside Jos with Adam’s bat carefully tucked under his arm. “And round one in the lounge?”

When they get back home, Adam’s parents are just getting out of their car. The kid immediately runs over to them, spewing about his entire day as they just laugh as parents do. If Eoin hears any compliments including his name, he pretends he doesn’t. Once Adam is over his initial excitement, he remembers that the Irishman is still holding his bat. He runs over and Eoin hands it over with a smile.

“Can we play again tomorrow?”

Jos looks at Eoin, obviously not wanting to say yes like they both know he wants to without checking first. There’s nine rooms in the house and only two more days to sully them.

“Of course,” Eoin replies jovially. He cautiously leans down and ruffles the boy’s chestnut hair as Jos had done so many times. And just like when Jos did, the boy giggles and scrunches up his face.

Adam squeals excitably and scurries off back towards his dad, no doubt to tell him all over again ‘ _I played with two cricketers, daddy! Two real cricketers. With test match centuries!_ ’ The pair watch him for a moment before Adam’s mother calls Jos over. The blonde quietly excuses himself and Eoin grabs his wrist for a second to pull him back; close enough to murmur heatedly in his ear.

“Don’t be long, we’ve got a lot of work to do.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s Media Day for the Natwest T20 Blast at Edgbaston. Jos and Eoin haven’t seen each other for a while.

Jos hears Eoin long before he ever sees him. He smiles to himself as soon as he hears that accented laugh and has to dip his chin to his chest in an attempt to hide it. He’s in public, around cameras and people who don’t really need to know. It’s been such a long time since he’s heard Eoin return to his gregarious self. There had been that Century in Australia, and the laughs over the highly-strung Clarke but nothing of true substance. Even after that series win in the Windies, there was constant pressure breathing down their necks. And Eoin had the added weight of ambition which was always twisting his mood.

They are away from all that now. Well, away from the _past_. Ambition and determination still run high but for the most part, it’s much more relaxed. It’s something Jos has sorely missed having not played for a county in a long time. And after the long, long winter, he’s itching to get back into off-white and add some numbers to his name.

Eoin’s already started his spring campaign, scoring fairly in his second match – a winning match. Jos is happy for him; for the mood it’s seemed to have put him in, because when the runs are coming, things are going the Irishman’s way and he’ll be able to enjoy himself more. Which is ideal.

Finally rounding the corner of the corridor, Jos immediately spots Eoin in his bright pink kit across the room. He keeps laughing, smiling, obviously flirting with a photographer who is either too straight or too respectful to notice or respond. Jos rolls his eyes, jamming his hands in his pockets and just watches the two of them.

He’s not the type to get jealous, especially over Eoin. The thought is ridiculous. Jos simply scoffs quietly to himself. The photographer is blonde and tanned muscles betray weeknights in the gym. He just stands back and watches as Eoin pretends to be interested in the SLR the man clutches. Eoin could pretend to be interested in a stamp collection if it gets him what he wants, a fact that makes Jos chuckle to himself.

Eventually, Eoin admits that the photographer is a handsome brick wall and glances around the room. Probably looking for more entertainment, or a familiar face. Jos just stands still, with an expectant eyebrow raised until those blue eyes meet his and Eoin grins. He politely excuses himself and wanders over with a cat-like casualness. If Jos didn’t know any better, he’d think the entire thing had just been a game anyway. Sometimes it feels like the redhead actively _tries_ to make him jealous. Sometimes Jos wonders what would happen if he ever was, or at least feigned to be.

“Hello,” Eoin drawls, when he’s finally close enough. They haven’t seen each other for a few weeks at most, yet he still looks Jos up and down like he expects some more shape. Maybe if he was Trego. But he’s not. “How have you been?”

Jos scoffs at the pleasantries, at Eoin’s candid expression of familiarity when he _knows_ under that face is everything but. He takes a step backwards, gesturing for the man to walk with him, away from the media and their cameras. They roll through the drill of “ _I’m good, you?_ ” until they’re out of earshot of the worst of it.

“So,” Jos stops and leans back against a window. The bright Spring sun floods in behind him, making Eoin squint as he looks at him. Not quite the closed-eyes-parted-lips of when he’s sleeping, yet not quite the frown that forms when he comes. The blonde bites his lip momentarily to keep himself from showing amusement. “How’s the boyfriend?”

Eoin doesn’t bother and chortles, rubbing his stubble as he looks down the corridor as if looking for someone. Not someone who could overhear, but as if looking for the aforementioned boyfriend. The blonde smirks, internally pleased with just how Eoin seamlessly follows him game, but externally making no show to hide the way he appreciates the strong set of the man’s jaw, or how his shirt collar distorts enough to show the muscle of his neck.

“I wouldn’t know. Haven’t seen him,” slowly, a narrow grin takes to his face which is completely unbefitting on their game. It’s much darker, much more than the _flirt_ that Jos had been watching a little while ago. “How’s yours?”

Sighing like he’s frustrated, Jos shrugs and turns his head to look at the Edgbaston grounds out of the window. Out of the corner of his eye he sees how Eoin puts his hands on his hips, fingers just under the hem of his shirt enough to expose the slightest amount of pale flesh. Bangladesh seems like such a long time ago. That one win and the celebration after it almost a century away.

“He’s being trouble, _like always_.”

“I’ve always said you’re too good for him,” Eoin says, managing to look sympathetic whilst the intent in his eyes never changes. That’s part of what Jos likes so much about him, smart and serious, yet ridiculously childlike in the worst of ways.

“And you are, I suppose?”

Eoin shrugs and he’s trying not to smirk. Like he does almost every moment they’re together, Jos wonders what’s going through that head of his. Not only is he fiercely intelligent, but also a level of deviance that Jos hasn’t quite reached yet. When Eoin opens his mouth again, his voice comes out like warmed honey. “I can try.”

Flicking his eyes between the window and Eoin’s feline-confident features, the blonde bites his lip, chuckling just slightly. That tone sinks into him, inspiring a mischief that just seems to be the two of them down to a T. He glances down the corridor, just as Eoin had done as if looking for this _boyfriend_ that remains stood before him, but he actually _is_ looking for any unwelcome glances.

Either Eoin with his shrewdness is already sure of their complete isolation or he simply doesn’t care. Whilst the latter is unlikely considering their positions, the redhead is still an openly shameless flirt.   There’s a toilet about 12 yards down the corridor, back towards where they came from and Eoin steps, gesturing towards it with a simple jerk of his head.

Another check down the corridor, this time with his grin truly pulling at the corners of his lips, Jos paces over to that brown door. He doesn’t step in as much as he is pushed; barely able to stick his hands out to catch himself should he fall when Eoin already has a firm hold of his waist. There’s a surprising amount of strength in that small body that will never cease to amaze him. It’s ridiculous because nearly every day he sees the man hitting balls for sixes and fours and _knows_ exactly what he’s capable of… yet Jos still catches a gasp in his throat when he’s nigh-on thrown backwards against the wall beside the sink.

The toilet is tiny – barely four squared and lit only with a single light bulb set into the centre of the ceiling. It’s clean enough to not remind him too much of a tale of Alex’s: a hook-up with a girl in a dodgy nightclub. But Eoin’s probably a lot more skilled… and actually _real_. He watches, beaming with anticipation as Eoin casually flicks the lock on the door then raises his azure eyes, little more than a  sparkle of colour in the heavy shadow under his brow and utterly sultry.

Jos is unwilling as ever to expose how easily Eoin excites him and scoffs, his chin angled upwards haughtily. “Unlike you to be so discreet, isn’t it?”

Eoin smiles, loosening his jaw as he saunters that near-metre that separates him. Jos doesn’t move, but curls his fingers around the cold ceramic of the sink. The redhead stops only a breath away. Two hands on Jos’ chest tease momentarily around his covered nipples before stroking firmly downwards. “I imagine your boyfriend won’t be best pleased to find out about this,” he breaths into the blonde’s chin.

“And you don’t want yours finding out what a whore you are?”

Eoin sneers, almost rolling his eyes. For a moment, Jos thinks he’s pushed him too far, because neither of them really know where the boundaries are because they’ve yet to bother to mark them out. But the redhead works away at the strings of his trousers; eyes full of desire and the blonde chooses the think that he’s desperate because he hasn’t done anything like this since that win in Chittagong.

“He won’t hear it from me.”

Jos isn’t entirely sure what he was expecting from this. It comes as a bit of a shock when Eoin all but yanks his trousers and pants down and immediately grabs at his cock. Ridiculous to expect anything more, because they’re in a toilet and there’s people milling around only metres away looking for photographs and interviews. This is no place for those long and indulgent reunion fucks they enjoy every now and then. This is like something that simply scratches an itch; barely conveying the feeling that brought Eoin up to Jos after abandoning that cameraman, and not finding someone else willing to play his cat-and-mouse games. But that’s still there. They’re the only ones less than ready to admit it though.

Eoin wastes no time at all, wrapping his left hand around the base of his shaft and suckling on the head to get him fully erect in next to no time. Jos feels how those lips tighten into a smirk when he leans his head back to gasp out in the pleasure he hasn’t felt in a while. The wet warmth of the Irishman’s mouth cannot be replicated when alone. Neither can the way his fingers work in perfect tandem and slip between his legs. Jos would be lying if he said he didn’t shower that morning without a thought of something like this happening. Maybe that’s even why he sought out Eoin in the first place. There’s plenty of other people he hasn’t seen and spoken to for longer.

But showering and preparing himself are two different things and when Eoin feels nothing but the soft dry skin of his hole, he lessens the pressure and simply rubs his fingertips against him. It does nothing but tease, igniting the nerves Jos had all but forgotten he had.  Memories of Eoin’s fingers knuckle-deep in him, curling them and spreading them so fantastically pleasingly. It’s regrettable it doesn’t happen too often now that they’ve found their roles in the not-relationship.

For a moment, he forgets that Eoin’s sucking his cock. He remembers when the redhead takes a few more inches in, fluidly and hungrily, until he hits the back of his throat. He’s not a man with a gag reflex and Jos never ceases to let him know how much that fact pleases him with a groan that comes from so deep inside it’s almost born in his groin. Eoin hums, blue eyes flicking up with such intensity that Jos has to roll his head back against the mirror behind him. It’s too much to know that the redhead enjoys doing this just as much.

Inhales become shakier the more Eoin takes him in. Those hands settle on his hips in a firm grip that’s a pivot for him to move himself. A slow, languid, gentle bobbing that is much too tempting to move towards. With every withdrawal he misses the closeness and just the overwhelming knowledge that Eoin would only ever do this with someone he truly cares for, yet he can seamlessly pretend to be anything but affectionate.

There’s something in the way those throat muscles contract and squeeze the head of his cock that reminds him of being in that smaller body. He doesn’t want to lose that and twines his fingers in Eoin’s short hair to urge him to stop moving back. The hold is only light. If he doesn’t want to, then the Irishman can pull away and call him whatever he wants. Jos will only apologise for overstepping the mark. Maybe Eoin will grunt and get back to blowing him conventionally, or maybe they’ll joke about it and resume the way things had been, but with clearer boundaries. But Eoin only hums and shuffles on his knees like he’s trying to find a better angle to be more comfortable and for it to feel all the better.

Jos gasps Eoin’s name when he makes the motions of swallowing, so tight and so much like how he feels at orgasm, only it comes in a rhythm that is truly like nothing else he’s experienced. His hand slips round to the back of the redhead’s neck and rubs his thumb against the flesh he knows he’s only a few inches underneath. And that’s when Eoin hums again. Despite his thumb being against his vocal chords, Jos doesn’t feel it that way. The vibrations travel right up his cock, bypassing everything on their way to his brain. He can’t feel anything _but_ what Eoin’s doing. He only just remembers where they are, _who_ they are, and with nothing to gag himself like a hand, wrist or Eoin’s shoulder, has to bite his lips and hope that his groans are too muffled to be heard in the corridor.

Eoin is shrewd. Eoin is sensible. He’ll pull back and tell him to shut up if he makes too much noise. But he never once stops. Strong hands slide to grip his thighs and Jos dares to glance down again. Fair eyelashes fan across exaggerated cheekbones and the smoothness of that face betrays his content. Jos is almost tempted to say something he might regret later but he knows better than to open his mouth now. He’s far too close to trust himself.

Sliding his hand back into Eoin’s hair, Jos tentatively rock his hips forwards. He looks down just to check for a reaction. No frown or obvious displeasure mars that perfectly smooth face. Eoin rubs his thumbs in little circles against his thighs and gently tugs him forwards. It’s an encouragement. A request. He does more than love it. He actually _wants_.

“ _Ugh, fuck_ ,” Jos groans through his teeth. He would moan Eoin’s name like he knows they both adore, but he’s not insane.

Rocks become full-on thrusts the closer he gets. His lips feel numb from the intensity he forces them together; the pain of it is completely washed away by the pleasure. It’s almost too much sensation to take in, and whilst Jos processes each stimulus from the smoothness of Eoin’s tongue against the underside of his shaft to the soft boundary of the back of his throat and that _goddamn humming_ , it all conglomerates into perfection.

His spine seems to curl in on itself as he climaxes. Head pressing back against the cold mirror; holding his breath is the only way he can stop himself from making a noise. So long since he’s felt anything of the sort, orgasm is quick and consuming. He can barely feel himself thrusting into the Irishman’s open mouth, but is strangely sensitive to the buzzing of that single bulb in the ceiling. Then all his senses come crashing back at once and it truly is too much.

He only has to hiss from the hyper-sensitivity for Eoin to pull back. The redhead rests with his forehead against one hip, regaining his breath. Jos knows he’s smiling and cards his hand through slightly-stiff ginger spikes until he’s ready to stand up.

There’s a little moistness at the corner of Eoin’s mouth that the blonde brushes away with his thumb as he brings him closer for a kiss. It’s the thanks he doesn’t have to say, and just about the only thanks Eoin will actually accept. He gasps as he’s packed back away into his underwear and trousers but the sound is lost inside that talented mouth that’s tasted better.

Eoin pulls away still grinning, his eyes still narrow and cat-like. He scoffs a bit and strokes Jos’ face. His thumb, as always, rubs into a dimple like he still finds them as cute as he did when they were just two teammates fucking around. “Sex flush,” he purrs.

Jos startles. He’s got photoshoots and interviews – _video interviews_ – to do! If the journalists don’t figure it out then Graeme most certainly will. It doesn’t help that Eoin is the pure embodiment of the cat who got a mouthful of cream. Then he remembers they’re in a toilet and he’s leaning against a sink.

He turns and runs the cold tap until it feels on the verge of turning into a miniature glacier. As he splashes his face – trying his best to avoid his hair – Eoin fits himself to his back. The blonde can’t help but smile at the reflection of pale arms against the red of his Lancashire kit. Eoin rests his chin on Jos’ shoulder. As the flush starts to fade from his cheeks, he holds his cold hands to his neck where it’s visible from the collarless shirt. At least it’s tight to his chest to hide the worst of the flush. But he’s far too satisfied to be angry at either of them for the recklessness.

Sighing, Jos looks into the reflected Eoin’s face and tries not to smile that cheeky smile of his. The Irishman’s eyes expose thoughts that tell him what he’s going to say before he even opens his mouth.

“You’re coming back to my hotel when we’re done here.”


End file.
